


Find Another City (Better Than This One)

by coricomile



Category: All Grown Up - Fandom, Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Rugrats
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-10
Updated: 2012-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-29 08:28:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/317816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Thanks." Patrick's face feels hot. He pulls at his hat nervously. "You know. Fans make the band, right?" He winces. Lame. Chuckie smiles brightly, though, braces flashing in the orange streetlights.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Find Another City (Better Than This One)

Patrick wipes the back of his arm across his forehead, grimacing at the slide of sweat. The lights on the stage are off now, their set over. Move along folks. Nothing to see here. He's sore down to his bones, bruised under the strap of his guitar, legs shaking from near exhaustion. He feels sixty instead of six days away from eighteen.

Pete crashes into him, bass and all, and Patrick's glad the amps are off. He thinks the reverb would make his head explode. Pete smells like the inside of a sock, his shirt soaked through, hair plastered to his forehead with a mixture of sweat and hair gel. Patrick figures he's probably not much better off.

"Good set," Pete yells into his ear, loud even over the ringing left from playing. Patrick winces but nods, smiling as they stumble off the stage. Guitar techs- they have _techs_ now, wow- take their gear as soon as they're in the wings, and Patrick feels exposed without his guitar. Raw.

Tony and Jeremiah are backstage grinning. Patrick turns away from the dressing room. He's not in the mood for prank war Fall Out Boy versus Mest tonight. Or ever, really, but he can be away from it now without feeling like an asshole. He waves at Joe and points to the bar. Joe nods and walks into the dressing room. Poor bastard. Probably doesn't even know what's coming.

The venue is small, some hole in the wall all ages place in California. There's a bar set up behind the floor, lit with low lights. Kids are packed between it and Patrick, shoving at one another, jittery. Some recognize Patrick as he tries to politely make his way through. He gets a lot of pats on the back, and one girl actually hands him a Sharpie and asks him to sign her tits. He blushes through it, careful to hold his elbow up so he doesn't get too much of an accidental feel. It's surreal; he thought stuff like that only happened in movies.

The barstools are filled with parents, bright yellow earplugs wedged firmly in their ears. Patrick doesn't know whether to feel offended or sympathetic. He squeezes in between a father in a dirty jacket and a tired looking mother.

"Coke," he shouts at the bartender over the house music. The woman recognizes him from the stage and smiles, waving him away when he tries to hand her two sweaty dollar bills. There's perks to being on tour after all.

Patrick's just settled himself against the wall, watching Mest's techs setting up with a hint of envy, when there's a pat on his shoulder. He turns, Coke sloshing over the rim of his cup onto his shirt. He's still mostly wet, so it doesn't phase him now. Later, though, he'll regret the sticky spot.

There's a girl standing next to him. She's taller than he is, skinny and flat chested, brown hair down to her shoulders. A pink stripe curls around her cheek, the dye fading out to a light orange at her forehead. She smiles brightly at him.

"Hi?" He's not sure if she can hear him, but it doesn't seem to matter because she's leaning in, her top rising up over her midriff. Patrick's ten seconds from panicking. He's not the dude into young girls. Where's Pete when he needs him?

"Hi, I'm Lil," she shouts.

"Patrick," he yells back, blanching when the house music cuts off. Most of the kids are too busy watching the stage to notice, though. Lil laughs brightly.

"You played great." She touches his shoulder, hand firm on him, and Patrick glances nervously over his shoulder. There's no sign of his band though, no matter how fervently he's hoping for them.

"Thanks." He's trying to figure out how to politely excuse himself, but Lil curls her fingers around his wrist and tugs. "I have to-"

"You have to meet my friend," Lil hollers over her shoulder, dragging him along beside her, digging her boots into the ground as he tries to resist. Tony's voice comes loud and clear over the speakers, and Patrick's wishing he stuck with the prank war.

Lil drags him towards the smoke deck. The air that's coming through the open door is cool and fresh, raising goosebumps on Patrick's skin. Most of the kids are just hanging out, sweat drying on their faces, chattering away to one another. He gets a few smiles, and two people ask for his autograph. Lil taps an impatient foot as he scribbles down his name on some kid's ticket, dazed.

"He's over here," Lil says once Patrick's free, pulling him to the far side of the deck. There are four kids on the steps leading down to the parking lot, talking loudly to one another. They're probably still hearing ringing in their ears. Two of them have bright purple hair. One looks nearly identical to Lil, like a male version. They're probably related. The last one's gangly and awkward, sitting sprawled at the bottom of the landing. Lil clears her throat.

The boy at the foot of the stairs startles, looking up. His eyes widen behind his square glasses. His wild mess of vibrantly red hair clashes with his green t-shirt. Patrick recognizes it as one of the ones that fill one of the boxes in the trailer. He's equal parts awed and weirded out by this.

"Chuckie, this is _Patrick_ ," Lil says, leaning into his name. "Patrick, this is my friend Chuckie." The kids on the stairs grin at each other.

"Wow, is that the band?" The boy with purple hair asks. "We should go."

"Gotta get that money's worth," Lil's probably brother agrees. The three of them scatter off, leaving Chuckie behind. Patrick feels sorry for him for a moment because, yeah. Friends suck.

Lil pulls Patrick down to the bottom of the stairs, bodily adjusting him until he's in front of her silent friend. She smiles brightly, waving before prancing back up to the deck. Patrick shifts awkwardly from foot to foot, staring down at his cup of flat Coke. He's surprised he's managed to hold onto it for so long.

"Um." Chuckie's still staring at him, a deer in the headlights. For lack of anything else to do, Patrick sits down on the cold cement next to him, crossing his legs under himself. It’s a little cramped, his knees bumping into Chuckie's calves, the bottom stair digging into the small of his back.

Down here, he can faintly hear the set, but it's mostly just vibrations through the concrete. They're blocked off from the rest of the deck, too low to be seen if no one's looking. It's nice. Privacy is a novelty nowadays. Chuckie clears his throat and sits up straighter.

"I'm sorry about Lil," he says. His voice is nasally, and there's a flash of braces as he talks. He's got a mess of freckles over his narrow nose and pink cheeks, like someone sprayed orange paint through a sieve over his face.

"It's. No, yeah, it's okay." Patrick presses his thumbs into the sides of his cup, the plastic bending easily. He's not good with this part. This is why he has Pete.

"I love your band," Chuckie blurts suddenly. He swallows, reaching one large hand up to scratch at his unruly hair. "I came to see you guys."

"Thanks." Patrick's face feels hot. He pulls at his hat nervously. "You know. The fans make the band, right?" He winces. Lame. Chuckie smiles brightly, though, his braces glinting in the orange streetlights.

There's a weird pause. Patrick doesn't know what to say, and Chuckie's star struck. Patrick squirms. It's getting cold, now, his shirt drying to the small of his back, crusty with sweat. He probably reeks. He's about to head back inside, but something about Chuckie's nervous energy stops him.

"So, um." Chuckie bites his lower lip. It's red and chapped, going white where his teeth sink in. Patrick catches himself looking too hard and forces himself to stop. "This is weird."

"A little," Patrick agrees. Silence sinks in for a few seconds before they both laugh. "So you live around here?"

"Yeah, for my whole life." Chuckie leans back on his arms, his too big shirt shifting over his flat stomach. "It must be nice to travel. See new places." Patrick shrugs.

"Sometimes." He doesn't say anything about missing home. He thinks maybe Chuckie sees it in his face somewhere.

"Hey," Chuckie says suddenly. Patrick jumps, his Coke spilling over his knees and the cement. Good thing it was free. Chuckie looks apologetic, his pale face red under his freckles. "Do you maybe want to go swimming? There's a pond- um. Is that weird?" Patrick laughs.

"My life is weird," he says. Pete Wentz has made sure of it. "What about your friends?"

"Kimi drove. I can walk home." Chuckie looks somewhere between hopeful and scared shitless. It's a look Patrick recognizes, and he can't help smiling.

"Let me just tell the guys." He pushes himself up, grimacing at the wet feel of his jeans on his skin. When he holds his hand out, it’s instinct. He's a matching shade of red when Chuckie grabs on, hand hot and slick. "You want to come?"

"I'm kind of a dork," Chuckie says. "I might go a little..." He waves his free hand in the air. Patrick realizes he's still holding on, palm to palm with this kid. He doesn't let go.

"Yeah, no. You'll be fine." Patrick leads him back inside, weaving through the crowd easily. Jeremiah's voice, rough and low, crackles through the PA. Tony juts his chin up in acknowledgment, smirking from the stage. Patrick drops his gaze quickly.

Patrick flashes his pass at the guard, the little blue _performer_ sticker on it peeling at the edges. The guard let's them through easily enough, cutting off the kids that try to follow. Chuckie goes quiet, wide eyes taking in the area. Patrick grins. He misses the wonder sometimes.

Pete and Joe are sprawled on the couch. Andy, sour-faced, is on the chair. His shoes, sitting beside him, are filled with silly string. Patrick winces and hopes they skipped his bag. He doesn't have enough clean clothes for this shit. Pete stops mid rant when the door clicks shut. His eyebrows rise when he sees Patrick's hand still wrapped around Chuckie's. Chuckie makes a distinctly embarrassing noise. Pete opens his mouth, grin turning it up strangely.

"Don't start, Wentz," Patrick warns. It's barely effective, the hot flush across his face giving him away. "I'm going for a swim. Don't leave without me, okay?"

"Never, Pattycakes," Pete says. "You gonna introduce your friend?" Chuckie squeaks.

"You're Pete Wentz," he chokes out. Patrick's gut twists a little, and he loosens his hold on Chuckie's hand. So that's the game. It stings.

"So I am," Pete agrees. Joe's watching steadily, eyes clear and calm over Pete's head. He smiles at Patrick like he knows and shakes his head. "Now that that's out of the way, who're you?"

"Chuckie Finster. I. Um. Love your band." Chuckie's fingers go tight, nervous energy almost palatable. Patrick wants to shake out of it. Maybe sulk in the corner. Instead, he stands still like an idiot, staring at his shoes. Beside them, Chuckie's sneakers are untied.

"Thanks," Pete says, and Patrick doesn't have to look up to know he's grinning hugely. "You wanna hang?" Patrick maybe hates him. He feels cold, the palm of his hand still hot against Chuckie's.

"We were going swimming," Chuckie says. "You still want to go, right?" He asks, softer. Patrick feels suddenly stupid and relieved. He ignores Joe's knowing grin, but he feels a hug in their near future.

"Yeah. Um." Patrick flounders when a towel hits him in the face. Andy whistles, and his friends are awesome, seriously. "Bye." He's going to be living this down for _weeks_ , he knows it. They're almost out the door when Pete's voice comes through.

"Be nice to my Patrick! I expect him back with his virtue in tact!" He cackles and both Patrick and Chuckie go red. Patrick amends his earlier thought; Andy and Joe are awesome. Pete still sucks.

They leave through the back. Patrick has no idea where to go, so he lets Chuckie lead the way, excited at the prospect of going somewhere without his band. He thinks belatedly about security and the talk about Stranger Danger that his mother had given him long ago. A quick look at Chuckie's pink cheeks and small smile quells his worries. He finds himself humming in the easy quiet.

They have to hop a fence to get to the pond. Patrick's a little sad to let go of Chuckie's hand, and his skin feels cold where they had been touching. His coordination is horrible, but Chuckie's is worse, and they both end up toppling ungracefully to the ground, laughing. When they get back up to their feet, Chuckie shyly twists his fingers through Patrick's.

The pond is small, tucked away in a cornfield. Its bank is made out of soft gravel and pebbles, shifting under their feet as they get nearer to the green-blue water. Tall, unripe stalks of corn hide the fence away, and Patrick feels like he's no longer in the city, but more like he's in a new world. If he looks hard enough, he can almost see stars. Chuckie's looking up at the sky next to him, eyes squinting. Maybe he sees them too.

"How'd you find this place?" Patrick asks as he toes off his shoes. The backs are broken down, the laces knotted so tightly they'll never come undone. His socks go after, lying next to his sneakers in little wet balls. The gravel isn't as soft as he’d thought, but it's still nice and cool under his bare feet.

"We used to come here a lot as kids." Chuckie's voice is muffled, shirt tangled up in his arms, covering his face. He's rail thin, ribs and hips pointing out awkwardly, pale skin nearly glowing in the moonlight. Patrick finds himself staring at the fine red hairs that lead down into Chuckie's pants and he makes himself look away. When Chuckie's head pops free, his hair is even messier, glasses crooked on his nose. It's endearing.

Patrick reaches for his belt, shy. It's not like he _plans_ to do anything, because he's not _Pete_ , and that means a lot, but. But this kid is awkwardly charming and attractive in an offbeat way and is looking at him with awe written across his face, and Patrick's not really sure of what to do with that. He takes a deep breath and shoves his jeans down, kicking them off awkwardly.

Chuckie's down to his boxers when Patrick looks up, skinny legs bare and pimpled with goosebumps. He jumps into the pond before Patrick can get a good look, splashing the gravel. His hair sticks to his face when he resurfaces, wine colored, and his eyes are unfocused without his glasses.

Patrick tosses his hat onto his jeans, placing his own glasses delicately on top of that. He doesn't jump in, but steps in slowly, cool water climbing up his calf to his thigh, up under his boxers. The splash when he slides all the way in is soft, and his t-shirt billows up around his stomach briefly before falling back into place.

"So," Chuckie starts, floating on his back, "what's it like being a rockstar?" Patrick snorts, doggy paddling around the pond's edges. He feels the sticky remains of sweat washing away, replaced by the coolness of the water. He's still wearing a sweatband around his wrist, and it feels heavy underwater.

"Definitely not a rockstar," he says.

"You're really good," Chuckie says simply. Earnestly. Something about the way he doesn't say _you guys_ makes something swell in Patrick's chest. "So, what's it like?"

"It's good," Patrick says slowly, rolling onto his back so he can float alongside him. Their arms bump, halfway in the water, halfway out. "It's hard. You're never really home." And he misses Chicago so badly it burns sometimes. "And you're always tired, but. I wouldn't give it up for the world." Never.

Chuckie's looking at him, eyes a little crossed to focus. Patrick feels like he's on display, open and vulnerable. He's not used to the attention on him, is used to being in Pete's shadow. It's a mix of excitement and embarrassment and something he can't really name, and Patrick's not sure if he likes it or not yet.

Something touches his lower back, warm through the slick cotton of his shirt, and it takes him a moment to realize it's Chuckie's hand. There's a second of blind panic, because Patrick doesn't _do_ this, but he shakes his head as Chuckie right them both and just. Stops thinking.

Chuckie's nose bumps his, and his braces are sharp, pressed just-so into Patrick's lower lip. But he tastes like cinnamon and smells like pond water, and his eyes are remarkably green up close. He's a warm weight against Patrick's chest, taller and slimmer, hands too big for his wrists wrapped too tightly around Patrick's hips. Like he's afraid to let go.

Patrick pulls back when his lungs start burning, opening his eyes. He's not really sure of when he closed them. Chuckie's cheeks are pink, his lips swollen red. His hair's started to dry in violent, messy angles. His eyes go wide, pupils too big, the pinks of his cheeks fading out to sheet white quickly. The pressure of his hands never lets up.

"Oh my god," he says, voice creaking up, and Patrick winces. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have-"

"No, it- Yeah, it was-" Patrick cuts himself off, and whoa. Most awkward hook up _ever_. This is why he never tries, because he's too socially retarded and-

Chuckie laughs. It's bright and full, still nasally. Patrick thumps his head against Chuckie's bony shoulder, feeling the vibration.

\---

When they leave the pond, their fingers and toes are wrinkled, pale enough to be blue. The sky is turning a shade of punched-in-the-eye purple, any sign of stars gone. The guys are probably pissed, if they're still up. Patrick can't really find it in himself to care, too wrapped up in the self-satisfied circle of Chuckie's gangly arms.

Chuckie pulls on his jeans, throwing his shirt over his shoulder, not bothering to put his shoes back on. Patrick dries off and ties the towel around his waist in a loose knot. His jeans are too tight to go on wet, and, really, they smell disgusting now that he's had the scent of fresh air around him. He toes on his sneakers, and the squish of his wet feet isn't as bad as he’d been anticipating.

They walk back to the venue in comfortable silence, hands loose at their sides, hips and elbows bumping. There's a dull pulse of an ache on Patrick's throat, right under his adams' apple, and a matching red-purple mark on Chuckie's shoulder. Patrick feels stupid with glee as he steals glances at it.

The parking lot is empty, but the vans and trailers are still behind the building, familiar, and Patrick's a little sad to see them. He wonders if this is how Andy and Pete feel after hook-ups. Probably not. His shirt feels stiff against his skin, uncomfortable.

He's not really surprised when the van door bursts open, spitting Pete out like a bad taste, the sound of his sneakers on pavement too real. Chuckie flinches, arm going a little tense against Patrick's. Patrick sympathizes. Pete throws up his arms in greeting, grinning wild and free. The deep lines around his eyes tell Patrick that he waited up.

"It's past your bedtime," Pete says, pointing a finger at Patrick's chest. Patrick knows the exact moment Pete spots the hicky and flushes. "You've stolen my Patrick's virtue."

"You're an ass, Wentz." Patrick ignores Pete's cackle, instead watching Tony's head pop out of Mest's van.

"Way to go, Stump," Tony shouts, too loud for the time of morning. Patrick hates everyone.

"You want a ride home?" He asks, because, really, it's the right thing to do. Chuckie looks between Patrick and Pete, then up to the van.

"Sure," he says, small and nervous. Patrick imagines what it would be like to be offered a ride home by David Bowie, and he understands a little of Chuckie's apprehension. It's weird.

Joe's snoring in the back row, half on the seat, half on the floor. Andy is reading in the driver's seat, legs folded under him in a way Patrick will never understand. He lifts a lazy hand in greeting when the climb in, bookmarking his page with a yellowing receipt. In a surprising move of consideration, Pete slides into the passenger's seat, giving Patrick and Chuckie what little privacy they can get.

The engine starts up, and Patrick can hear Mest's van roaring to life beside them. It's a late drive, but they've had later. Patrick figures he'll take over the afternoon shift to make up for it. Chuckie's warm and still damp, pressed close against his side, all small smiles and fluttery hands.

"I, uh, had a good time," he says, voice low under the hum of the van. "Was that lame to say?"

"A little," Patrick replies, but he's grinning as Chuckie gives Andy directions to his house. If something silly and foreign jumps in his chest when Chuckie tangles their fingers together, he says nothing about it. There's no reason to.

Chuckie's house is dark, the only light coming from an upstairs window. Andy kills the headlights as he pulls into the driveway, letting the engine rumble on. Jeremiah stops in the middle of the road. There are no cars coming anyway.

"Um. If you come to California again," Chuckie starts awkwardly, one hand on the door. Patrick, damp towel still around his waist, hat and glasses crooked, leans forward to kiss him. It's gotten strangely familiar in a short span of time, and he's disappointed that this is it.

"Yeah," he says. Chuckie's braces flash in the darkness. Up front, Pete rolls his eyes.

"Jesus," he says before leaning back between the seats, twisted awkwardly. There's a Sharpie in his hand, and he grabs Chuckie's arm with the other.

"Pete, what the fuck-"

"You'll thank me later." Pete circles the bruise on Chuckie's shoulder and draws an arrow down his arm, writing a hasty _made by Patrick motherfucking Stump_ under it. Patrick slaps at his hand, but Pete's already written a handful of numbers across Chuckie's chest, and. Oh. Why didn't he think of that? "I expect you to call him," Pete says seriously. Maybe he doesn't suck so much after all.

"Yeah," Chuckie says, pushing the van door open. "I will."

And he does.


End file.
